


Secrets and Lies

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: muse_talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-16
Updated: 2008-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I close my eyes when I feel the bile start to rise in my throat.  Force it back down.  I will not vomit.  I will not break down.  I did what I had to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 213  
> Written for LJ's Muse_Talking community (1st Person Justin Taylor)  
> Prompt: Secrets and Lies

I try to slide the door open as quietly as possible, wincing inwardly when it squeaks and squeals on its track. It's past 3am and we both promised we'd always be home by three (and no names or numbers exchanged, there was that, too, and I have no idea where what I just did falls in on that score.) The best I can hope for is that Brian is already passed out, sound asleep, and the worst I can imagine is… this, Brian sitting up, still dressed, working at his computer. Waiting for me.

"I had to talk to the boss," I tell him.

_Sap was fucking around in the DJ booth when I found him. His lizard eyes drank me in. He told me what I had to do. And I refused. At first I refused. _

"He said starting tomorrow I can dance on the bar."

_His hands were cold. When he took me in his mouth, my skin crawled in revulsion. My eyes darted around the room, making sure that no one was watching. That no one was witness to my shame._

I felt cheap. I felt used.

Brian doesn't look around, barely acknowledges that I've said anything at all. "After only one night?" he asks. Voice bland and uninterested, but there is a line of tension across his shoulders, stretching the thin material of his T-shirt. His fingers fly across the keyboard, forming words and sentences and paragraphs that I'll never read.

"Told you I could take care of myself," I say. I cross the distance between us and lean in to give him a kiss.

Brian doesn't kiss me back.

I wonder if he can smell Sap's cheap cologne on my skin.

When he doesn't respond I head for the shower, leaving a trail of clothes in my wake. For once I'm not disrobing for effect, not shaking my ass or glancing over my shoulder to titillate. I'm just exhausted, bone tired.

I turn up the water temperature as hot as I can stand it. I squint up into the spray and let the water rain with brutal force across my face. Reach up and snag the bar of soap from the shelf; lather it up and spread the foam across my arms, my stomach, my hips. My cock.

I still feel slimy. Dirty. Like I'll never be clean again.

I scrub for several minutes at a small stain on my hip before realizing that it's a bruise. A fingerprint. Sap's fingerprint.

_His hands were cold._

I close my eyes when I feel the bile start to rise in my throat. Force it back down. I will not vomit. I will not break down. I did what I had to do.

The shower door opens and a cool breeze precedes Brian as he steps inside. I shiver and open my eyes.

He's watching the water course its way down my chest, eyes blank, expressionless, and it makes my breath catch in my throat. Then he lays a hand on my hip, his palm covering that little mark, that bruise, Sap's bruise, and his eyes go soft. And I think that I could tell him what I did. I could tell him and maybe he'd understand.

When his mouth finds my neck and fastens there, I lean my head back and moan. The water batters our bodies, streams in rivulets between his shoulder blades, down the curve of his ass.

And when he spins me gently around to face the shower stall wall, I bend my arms and flatten my cheek and my palms against the glass. I close my eyes. I wait for the telltale rip of the condom wrapper.

When he enters me, so slowly, I know that I can never tell him. The words would stick in my throat like sandpaper, like glass, like chalk.

But when he thrusts against me and whispers my name, I think he already knows.


End file.
